the funeral

At the funeral … things went from bad to worse.
There were six of us carrying the coffin. Me, carl, mark, John, Lamps and Clive (Fraser's brother). Souness was on the subs-bench … just in case. Our instructions were simple; lift the coffin off of the hearse, walk it slowly into the crematorium and plonk it down on the old catafalque ready for the big off.

It was just as we reached the entrance to the Crematorium that the unmistakable sound of Bob Marley’s ‘I shot the sheriff started up from inside. House of Fraser had been an avid Marley fan so I suppose his mum and dad thought the song appropriate. Maybe it was. Who was I too say? All I know is that it took me totally unaware …

… and I started laughing uncontrollable.

It was just so fucking loud.

I shot the sheriff
But I didn’t shoot no deputy, oh no! oh!

“SHHHH!” said Mark … “Have some bloody respect!”
Me and Mark had been put shoulder to shoulder much to the depressed punters annoyance.
“I can’t … I can’t help it,” I spluttered.
We traipsed on, entering the crematorium itself, I tried and tried to think of unfunny things but nothing fucking worked. I was gone, just totally fucking pissing myself.

Yeah! all around in my home town,
They’re trying’ to track me down;

The crematorium was packed. Luckily, I was being shielded from the mourners by the coffin and the song was drowning out the ludicrous sounds I was making.

They say they want to bring me in guilty
For the killing of a deputy,

We kept moving. I knew that in a few moments we’d be plonking the coffin down and everyone here would be able to see me in hysterics. I was actually in fucking pain with it all. You know what it’s like … the more you struggle to keep a straight face, the worse it becomes. You’ve all been there. It’s just my luck it had to happen at a fucking funeral. Then I found myself picturing the coffin lid opening, Fraser sitting bolt upright and guitar in hand start jamming along to the song …
Sheriff john brown always hated me,
For what, I don’t know:

Oh Shit oh Shit! Fuck fuck fuck!

I have to stop laughing. Have to stop, have to stop, have to stop, have to stop, shit, shit shit.

With one big bollock of an effort I did indeed, finally, manage to stop laughing. At least on the outside. Inside I was a fucking wreck and I knew it wouldn’t take much to set me off again.

We placed the coffin on the catafalque and stood back. There were no seats left, the place was jammed, (weird because he wasn’t that popular when he was alive) so we stood against a wall facing everything.

Reflexes had got the better of me(here I go. Shit. Oh go!)
And what is to be must be:
(Don’t … Hold it)
Every day the bucket a-go a well,
(breathe)
One day the bottom a-go drop out,(think boring … news at 10 news at 10, … think, I’m henry the 8th I am henry the 8th … shoes shoes lookatme shoes, shoes shoes! Oh god )

One day the bottom a-go drop out.
It was then that the vicar walked in. The moment I clocked this prune I knew straight away that there just had to be a god. I knew this because It could only be a prankster like him that, at the very moment I’d gained some control over my hysterics, would send in a vicar who was a total ringer for Tommy Cooper. The second I saw him I totally lost it.

I had to be escorted from the fucking church.